Read Online Girl Trade - full length erotic adventure novel (Xcite Erotic Romance Novels) by Chloe Thurlow - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chloe Thurlow
Ads: Link
primitive, uncompromising and it was little wonder when he found a naked girl on the beach that he softened her up with a spanking and used her mouth to unload his semen. If the facts had been laid out for me in court I would have said guilty with extenuating circumstances, a conditional discharge, don’t do it again.
I was dressed now, my costume completed with a Christian token and again in this world without language I could only assume one thing: I was with the St Christopher about to begin a journey.
Outside, the orange light had faded and a few hesitant stars appeared in the sky. The man in the black turban, the mechanic, joined the three sailors who had arrived with the sheikh and, in pairs, carried the Zodiacs down to the sea. Two of them made their way back to the fishing shed to collect containers of water which they loaded on board with the gasoline cans; the last fresh water and fuel before the refugees reached Spain.
The sheikh spoke for several minutes to the beachcomber. The older man then scurried rodent-like among the Africans, fluttering his hands like the wings of a bird as he urged them down the beach to the boats. The woman who had given me the sarong lifted her little boy into her arms and, as she hurried behind the others, the child raised his small hand to wave.
Just the sheikh and I were left in the flickering pool of light made by the oil lamps ranged along the entrance to the shed. As he approached, I squeezed my fists tightly together, took a deep breath to slow my pulse and turned to face him. I drew my hair from my eyes, batted my eye-lashes and smiled.
‘I swam here from La Gomera,’ I said. I spoke slowly and pointed. ‘La Gomera,’ I said again, trying emphasise that I belonged somewhere.
He didn’t appear to understand what I had said and said something back to me in the short, hard syllables of what I thought must be Arabic. He stood feet planted a foot apart, hands on hips in a faintly feminine way. The puzzled look he had worn earlier had gone from his features and he studied me as you might a photograph of someone met on holiday whose name you can no longer recall, or a book jacket that doesn’t quite work. You know the design’s wrong, and you know the book’s not going to sell, but you don’t know why.
He moved his head fractionally, taking in the shape of my nose, my lips, my well-defined shoulders. I was tanned, slender, bright-eyed. I was more at ease dressed in the sarong, and the butterflies in my tummy I tried to ignore. I held my spine straight, shoulders back. I was the same height as the man and looked into his eyes. I spoke slowly.
‘Please help me. Por favor. S’il vous plaît .’
His eyes grew more intense. He stared at me, at my lips, as if trying to fathom these strange words.
‘ S’il vous plaît ,’ I tried again. ‘I just want to go home.’
It was hopeless. He had no idea what I was saying. And I had no idea what the beachcomber had told him, what version of the truth he had spun for the sheikh.
Now the man in white did something strange and touching. He reached forward and stroked my cheekbone. He ran the tips of his fingers over my full lips, pulling softly at my bottom lip and allowing it to spring back. He stroked my hair, then the soft pad of his finger traced the circumference of my ear. He gently squeezed my ear lobe. That same finger ran across the arc of my eyebrow and back again over my cheek.
He said something and smiled. I smiled back and remembered for some reason that man I met once at a party who had slowly unzipped the back of my dress. He had paused, waiting for me to say something, and what I said was “no” with a giggle that defined me as a girl not a woman.
That day on that unknown island I had grown up. I was a woman with one weapon.
‘Yes,’ I said.
He smiled again.
The moment passed. He snapped his fingers and, with a movement of his head, commanded me to follow. We made our way across the hard sand and
I was dressed now, my costume completed with a Christian token and again in this world without language I could only assume one thing: I was with the St Christopher about to begin a journey.
Outside, the orange light had faded and a few hesitant stars appeared in the sky. The man in the black turban, the mechanic, joined the three sailors who had arrived with the sheikh and, in pairs, carried the Zodiacs down to the sea. Two of them made their way back to the fishing shed to collect containers of water which they loaded on board with the gasoline cans; the last fresh water and fuel before the refugees reached Spain.
The sheikh spoke for several minutes to the beachcomber. The older man then scurried rodent-like among the Africans, fluttering his hands like the wings of a bird as he urged them down the beach to the boats. The woman who had given me the sarong lifted her little boy into her arms and, as she hurried behind the others, the child raised his small hand to wave.
Just the sheikh and I were left in the flickering pool of light made by the oil lamps ranged along the entrance to the shed. As he approached, I squeezed my fists tightly together, took a deep breath to slow my pulse and turned to face him. I drew my hair from my eyes, batted my eye-lashes and smiled.
‘I swam here from La Gomera,’ I said. I spoke slowly and pointed. ‘La Gomera,’ I said again, trying emphasise that I belonged somewhere.
He didn’t appear to understand what I had said and said something back to me in the short, hard syllables of what I thought must be Arabic. He stood feet planted a foot apart, hands on hips in a faintly feminine way. The puzzled look he had worn earlier had gone from his features and he studied me as you might a photograph of someone met on holiday whose name you can no longer recall, or a book jacket that doesn’t quite work. You know the design’s wrong, and you know the book’s not going to sell, but you don’t know why.
He moved his head fractionally, taking in the shape of my nose, my lips, my well-defined shoulders. I was tanned, slender, bright-eyed. I was more at ease dressed in the sarong, and the butterflies in my tummy I tried to ignore. I held my spine straight, shoulders back. I was the same height as the man and looked into his eyes. I spoke slowly.
‘Please help me. Por favor. S’il vous plaît .’
His eyes grew more intense. He stared at me, at my lips, as if trying to fathom these strange words.
‘ S’il vous plaît ,’ I tried again. ‘I just want to go home.’
It was hopeless. He had no idea what I was saying. And I had no idea what the beachcomber had told him, what version of the truth he had spun for the sheikh.
Now the man in white did something strange and touching. He reached forward and stroked my cheekbone. He ran the tips of his fingers over my full lips, pulling softly at my bottom lip and allowing it to spring back. He stroked my hair, then the soft pad of his finger traced the circumference of my ear. He gently squeezed my ear lobe. That same finger ran across the arc of my eyebrow and back again over my cheek.
He said something and smiled. I smiled back and remembered for some reason that man I met once at a party who had slowly unzipped the back of my dress. He had paused, waiting for me to say something, and what I said was “no” with a giggle that defined me as a girl not a woman.
That day on that unknown island I had grown up. I was a woman with one weapon.
‘Yes,’ I said.
He smiled again.
The moment passed. He snapped his fingers and, with a movement of his head, commanded me to follow. We made our way across the hard sand and
Similar Books
